Les enfants de guerre: Ivory in Flames
by Warpath Grizzly
Summary: 2093 C.E. Humankind has been at war for fifty years, separated into two factions: the Corporations and the Governments. Desiring to end the war once and for all, both sides seek to strike down the other in one fell swoop. Enter Project Phoenix Fire.
1. Introductory Transmission

**Commence transmission**

States are constantly reminded of their mortality; dissent becomes rebellion, rebellion becomes revolution, revolution becomes war. Along the way, armadas are sunk, kings beheaded, empires defeated, and genocides committed. With the final stroke of a pen on paper, an entire country can be written off the map, its people refugees in their own homeland. A new order emerges, or an old one is maintained, but the end of nations always ends in blood.

With the end of the Great War came the end of the age of empires. In Europe, Austria and Hungary were divided, the German Empire dissolved into an unstable republic, and the Communist Party adopted in Russia, leaving France and the British Empire desperately clinging to their interests in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. It took a second war of disastrous proportions to give rise to the time of superpowers, when war was waged not with weapons, but beliefs; the newly established countries of the so-called Third World became the battlegrounds where ideologies conflicted, a baptism in blood. But something much worse was on the horizon.

Globalization swept across the planet, leaving no state in its way unscathed. Within borders, loyalties were tested, resulting in some nations finding unity among the people, and others being internally divided. Slowly, the states began to wither and die as borders became meaningless, the only divisions being frontlines. And yet, citizens everywhere would not abandon the old ways, when dying for king and country was considered the highest honour of all. It is possible that at last humankind might have seen some semblance of world peace, but it was the makers of this peace that would ultimately undo their work.

As world leadership came into question, there arose a power that none could have expected. On 10 June, 2036, the heads of the world's top corporations met on Cooper Island, recently renamed Gates Island, in the Palmyra Atoll. There they formed a coalition, becoming the richest and most influential group of individuals in the world. Calling themselves the United Megacorporation Alliance, they created and hired their own paramilitaries, and began carving out pieces of the states for themselves, turning cities into their own private, and politically interconnected city-states.

Obviously, the states resisted, confidently denouncing the UMA as an illegitimate cartel with no claims to sovereignty. Except the states were not confident of their claim. The UMA cities quickly came to be operated as legitimate city-states, even providing elections. Though some left the cities taken under UMA control, many stayed and were even attracted to them. The Corporations, as they came to be popularly called, offered some of the highest standards of living on the planet, and were able to provide jobs for practically everyone within their borders.

As support for the Corporations grew, so did their desire for more territory, and with it more resources. Clashes between UN and UMA troops broke out all across Africa, South America, the Middle East, Asia, the Pacific. Even as those firefights raged on, paramilitary troops on Corporation payrolls struck out at the strongholds of Government powers themselves; natural gas lines in Russia surrendered, oil platforms off the Norwegian coast stolen, acres of forest conquered from Canada. Where at first the states of Europe and the West could not keep the Corporations off their doorsteps, that constant presence, they now found themselves being eaten alive, inside and out. Many believed they had waited too long to act.

But they would not back down. With a terrible might, the Governments struck back against the Corporations. Nations once sworn enemies with each other found themselves fighting side by side against a common foe. The remaining states, understanding they were powerless on their own, joined forces, and were able to direct their energies through the United Nations. Over half the world's population was in support of the Governments still, and despite the economic ruin felt in every country, the Governments were able to amass armies that rivaled the paramilitaries of the Corporations. In an unexpected turn of fate, UMA troops were pushed back by Government forces.

Surprised, the heads of UMA started to focus their attention on the strengthening of the military sector, providing grants and equipment to further military technologies. Cybernetics were applied to soldiers for the first time, giving the paramilitary companies an edge over the Governments, who refused to impose such technologies on their own troops. As cybernetics were further developed, the Corporations used the technology as a tool to draw in more people, offering superhuman enhancements to anyone willing enough to take out a loan with their banks.

Those who chose to become cyborgs were labelled in politically correct circles as SAMEHs; Surgically and Mechanically Enhanced Humans. Sammies, as they were called, were generally cast out of the Government territories, being seen as Corporation supporters or sympathizers, willing to sell their souls to the Devil out of self-interest. Under the Governments, cybernetics were permitted for those that required them, the dying or permanently injured, though these enhancements never allowed for superhuman abilities, simply replacing what was lost.

Other military equipment was developed as well to "repair the human deficiency"; psychokinetic development, genetic research, artificial intelligence, even whole mechanical suits were created in order to win a war that was destroying the planet. A fifty year planet-wide war with no end in sight.

But fifty years is a long time, and now both sides are preparing to unleash their most devastating weapons yet. Who will come out on top, and who will be annihilated from the pages of history has yet to be decided. Only one thing is certain: the fate of the world hangs in the balance.

**End transmission**

Authorization: Col. Wang, Yao; Project Phoenix Fire


	2. Assembling the Troops

**Les enfants de guerre**

Ivory in Flames

By Blaklite

-{ * }-

Dublin, Ireland

Crouching behind the corner of the warehouse, Lt. von Bock waited for the signal that told him that the rest of his men were in place. It was an unusually chilly October night in Dublin, a consequence of global warming, but he couldn't complain. It was much warmer than his original posting in Siberia.

Having commanded a successful raid which had reclaimed a Russian natural gas line to Government control, Brigaadikindral Kangur had seen fit to promote him to leitnant. He had also suggested his name to the United Nations Department of Field Operations who had seen fit to transfer him temporarily to Ireland to lead this raid. Their objective was to intercept a weapons deal between the Corporations and an independent dealer. Eduard had not been given any details, but he assumed the weapons dealer was offering some new upgrade the Corporations had yet to create themselves, or a stash of vehicles that were cheaper for them to buy than make. In the end, it didn't matter what was being sold; the job was the same either way.

Hearing the three consecutive bird chirps which signaled that the second half of his team was in place, Eduard peeked out around the corner one last time, assessing his route. Six armed men not in military dress stood outside guarding the warehouse doors. They must have been hired by the arms dealer inside. The lack of paramilitary presence likely meant that the Corporation representative had not yet arrived. Perfect, because it was easier to distract six men than twelve.

Looking back over his shoulder, the lieutenant nodded once to his men, who returned the action, letting him know they had his back. Launching himself up and forward, Eduard began to sprint across the pavement. Running parallel to the wall whose safety he just left, the Estonian zeroed in on the shipping container that lay 50 meters away. He was aware of his booted feet hitting the concrete, of the bullets zooming past him and into the ground where his feet had been nanoseconds before. But none of it mattered. All that mattered was that the plan was working.

Even as the hired men were shooting at their lieutenant, his men were firing at them. von Bock was just the decoy, focusing their enemies' attentions on him so his men could get in clear shots, hopefully without any of his soldiers getting injured in the process. As Eduard rounded the container, he stopped just at the edge, pressed his back against it, and readied his rifle. Besides his ragged breath, he heard nothing in the night; the shooting had stopped. The distant sound of quick boots sounded next, signaling that his squad was securing the perimeter.

"All clear, sir!" He heard his second-in-command call out. Emerging from behind the shipping container, Eduard observed his men. They were spread out in a flawless formation that had every corner, every space covered. When he'd been promised the best of the best for this raid, he didn't think he'd actually get it.

Coming to stand beside his second-in-command before the doors, he lifted his rifle and aimed it ahead of himself. When they were all in position, he nodded to the two men grasping the handles of the doors. In a blur, the doors were slid aside, and von Bock and his men crossed the threshold, seeking targets.

Only, there were none to be found. Instead, the lieutenant was faced with an unusual situation. In the middle of the mostly empty warehouse stood a table, and on this table sat, with his legs crossed, a blond gentleman who was idly flipping his Balisong with one gloved hand. He looked bored, as if he'd been forced to wait for something for much longer than he anticipated. As Eduard approached him, he was able to catch in those sea blue eyes a glint of amusement, possibly due to the surprise and awe he as well as his men were experiencing, and most certainly confidence. Even in the dark, the Balisong's blade gleamed; beside the man on the table was a bloodied white handkerchief, the letters F.B. embroidered at one corner, as well as a handgun with silencer attached.

"Are you Special Agent Bonnefoy?" von Bock questioned the mysterious man.

"I am he," responded the blond, never once stopping the movements of the knife. "And you would be Lt. von Bock, correct?" Nodding, Eduard couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable, fixed as he was under that piercing blue gaze.

"You were not present at the briefing," the Estonian stated.

"I was already aware of the situation, and did not find it necessary to attend."

The young lieutenant narrowed his pastel green eyes at the other man, but said nothing of his disrespect for proper military procedures. He had been told little of Special Agent Bonnefoy, and had gotten the impression that it was best not to ask questions. He was to be treated as a superior officer, though von Bock was not forced to obey his orders. The Estonian didn't feel worried that he would be bossed around by this character; the Frenchman, as his last name suggested he was, didn't seem interested in giving nor following orders.

"Are you responsible for…this?" Eduard asked, gesturing at the room. Behind the agent, six corpses lay sprawled on the ground in pools of their own blood. Bullet casings where everywhere, the guns to which were likewise discarded, no one being left alive to use them against the unexpected attacker. The only other person still breathing in the warehouse before von Bock and his men had entered besides the agent was the arms dealer, unconscious and tied to the singular chair.

The agent Bonnefoy didn't bother answering his question. Obviously, it could have only been him. Instead, he said, "There are four more on the catwalk upstairs." By four more it was implied he meant bodies.

_Sixteen__ bodyguards. Must have been some deal_, Eduard thought to himself. Over his shoulder, he ordered, "Let's get this guy back to HQ." A few soldiers quickly made their way over to the unaware arms dealer, a fairly high profile Haitian man known as Baron Vendredi. He'd slipped past the Governments for five years, but no longer.

"Are you going to return with us to HQ for debriefing?" von Bock asked, fully expecting the answer to be no. For a second it seemed that Bonnefoy was going to say yes, but a three-toned beep cut him off. Taking out a razor thin cell phone from his back pocket, the Frenchman flipped it open and read the incoming text. A moment later, he smiled a feral smile, and that's when von Bock noticed those canines that seemed just a bit too long, too sharp.

"Désolé, lieutenant. Looks like I have other plans." Slinking off the table and taking his effects with him, the agent proceeded to calmly walk past the Estonian officer, moving with the grace and ease of a top predator with nothing to fear. Eduard narrowed his eyes at the retreating figure once more. There was something odd about that one, but at least now he was out of the Estonian's hair. Turning his attention back to his men, the lieutenant went over the events of the raid in his head, and overall found it to be another successful mission.

Qatif, Eastern Province, Saudi Arabia

"Hey, Jo-enness!"

"For the last time: it's _Jones_. Christ's sake, Mathias, we've been working together for almost a year, and you _still_ don't know my name?" Though the young blond's tone was somewhat chastising, his smile told the Dane that it was all in good fun. Jumping down from the four foot stone wall that was his post, the blue-eyed teen slung his gun onto his back so he could give the second lieutenant an overdramatic salute, face serious. The spiky haired, blond-headed Dane could only roll his eyes and smile. In turn, the bespectacled young man grinned, and the two soldiers shook hands as if they were good friends that had known each other for years rather than months. War had a way of doing that.

"Who's the kid?" Jones asked, finally noticing the new recruit standing a little ways behind Mathias. The boy, his blue eyes telling of nothing but his inexperience, saluted him. Oh yeah, _definitely_ a newbie.

"Private Lorraine, sir!"

"Fresh out of training, this one," 2nd Lt. Køhler explained, lighting a cigarette.

"Do you have a first name, private?" Jones asked, making a show of scrutinizing the recruit.

"Alexander, sir." It was clear the blond's inspection was making him nervous.

"Well, Alex, welcome to Dog Company." The pair shook hands, one smiling nervously, and the other beaming his usual megawatt smile. "You don't mind if I call you Alex, right? I already took Al."

"Uhh I do not mind, sir. That's what they called me back home."

"And where is back home for you, Alex?" Al, questioned, leading the boy, side by side, and Mathias, behind them, down what was once an alleyway.

"Massachusetts, sir."

"You hear that, Mathias?" Al asked, looking back at his superior. "_Finally_, another American. There is a God."

"No, there isn't. For he has not yet sent me another Dane. Instead, I have to deal with _your_ ugly mug all day, sergeant." He took another drag from his cigarette.

The boy, surprised, stared at his fellow American without blinking. "You're a sergeant?" He asked at length. They turned right down another alleyway, this one's walls still mostly intact, making the passage seem narrower.

The blond nodded, always smiling. "Sergeant Alfred F. Jones of the United Nations Armed Forces. Currently stationed here in sunny Saudi Arabia. And for the weather today, zero percent chance of a lead shower, back to you, Alex."

"It's just, sir, you seem very young to be a sergeant already, sir."

Alfred seemed to be thinking for a moment, caught up in a memory. "How old are you, Alex? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Just turned nineteen, sir."

"I'll be turning twenty-three in July." The boy looked awed. "And I'm not a sergeant because I saved an entire village, or the division defending it, as a rookie. I have yet to save even a single person. The only thing I've ever saved is a cat from a tree." He stopped for a moment. "I joined the war at a very young age, too young, and I'm glad you didn't make the same mistake as me, even though, being from the East Coast, you would never have been allowed to join when I did. I'm a sergeant for the years under my belt, not the medals on my chest."

"That's a lie, Jones. I heard about what happened in Norway," Mathias called his bluff.

"A country I hope never to return to. Too much snow. But the girls are nice. I remember this one blonde, she had huge-"

"Sgt. Jones here took command of his platoon when their sergeant was killed in action," Køhler said to the recruit, cutting off the blond. "He wasn't even an officer of significant rank, he was just a private. But he got them through; there's was the only platoon to complete the objective. After that, they started promoting him."

Alfred glared at the Dane, even as the green horn stared at the other American in awe. "Thanks for spoiling my attempt at being deep and meaningful, asshat."

"No problem, sergeant," Mathias responded, grinning and flicking his cigarette butt onto the sand. Ahead of the group, the alley opened up into a square. The newbie hesitated, military training telling him that they should assess the danger the openness of the square posed, but he nonetheless followed his superiors when they crossed the street without a care. Mathias could tell what was going through his head. "This area hasn't seen any action for two weeks. The Corporations are holed up further south, trying to push us into the sea. It won't work; we won't let them."

They walked towards the north side of the square where a large building, what once was a hotel, stood. Though large sections were cracked, and it appeared that the thing would crumble any minute, it was the sturdiest building in the square. And it hadn't fallen yet, even with an entire platoon inside.

"You must be wondering why it's so quiet and empty out here, Alex," Alfred stated, not looking at him. In fact, the boy really hadn't thought about it. But now that it had been pointed out, he supposed it was oddly deserted. "The Corporations were here first," Sgt. Jones continued. "Saudi Arabia has always been a strong supporter of the Governments. The people resisted, several people were killed, including the owner of the hotel we're using as our barracks. In the end, they didn't succeed; Corporation control was established in this area, until we showed up and kicked them out. I hear it was an absolute bloodbath here five years ago. The Corporations were loathe to lose this place, because of the oil field, you know? S'why they're still fighting to get it back. Anyways, the people here have had enough of war and death. They stay inside as much as they can, surviving mostly off of the supplies we bring them. If you see anyone, you might get some cold looks, but they won't bother you. Better us than the Corporations."

While they were making their way up the steps to the hotel, Pvt. Lorraine looked out once more at the desolate square. For a second, he swore he saw someone looking out of a darkened window at their group, but the figure was gone as soon as he'd blinked.

Each man instantly felt a bit better as they crossed into the shade of the hotel, which only had one door still attached to its hinges. Here, signs of life greeted Alex instantly. Besides some regular debris that had been pushed off to the side, fallen timbre, piles of dust, left over knick knacks from older days, it was still messy. Clearly, a group of men lived within the confines of these walls. Even here, though, it was quiet, but a comforting silence unlike that of the town outside.

"Most of the men are probably still asleep. It's usually too hot in the afternoon to do much of anything else, if you're not out doing rounds. You'll be sharing a room with Michaels, number 24, up the stairs. He's likely sleeping, so don't bother knocking. We'll set you up after supper, but if you're bored you can go see if Cook needs help in the kitchen." And with that, Alfred shooed him off.

"He'll do fine," Mathias said, after Lorraine had gone up the stairs. He pulled out a letter from his jacket pocket, holding it out for Alfred to grab. "This is for you." His tone was slightly anxious.

Looking at the letter, what was first meant to catch Alfred's eye was the UN symbol, blue on the white envelope, with the letters UNAF written underneath. Fuck, was he getting transferred? He looked to Mathias, but the blue-eyed Dane shook his head. He knew nothing about it. Slowly, Alfred tore open the letter, and read it.

"What is it?" The second lieutenant asked, seeing his comrade's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"I've been summoned, but it doesn't say what for."

Mathias made a surprised face. "Perhaps they are sending you on a classified mission."

"Perhaps…Anyways, a helicopter is picking me up at 800 hours tomorrow at HQ."

"Well, just get it over with, and come back right after," Køhler said, walking towards the exit. In a joking tone, he continued. "Who knows, maybe you'll come back a sergeant major."

Alfred thought it over in his head for a moment. "Sergeant Major Jones…It has a ring to it."

"Don't let it go to your head; you'll embarrass me if you fluff up this mission."

With a flourish, and much mocking gusto, the sergeant again saluted his superior. "Yes, sir!"

Ottawa, Canada

It was cold. Scratch that: it was fucking freezing. And it was only the 28th of October! Not that such weather wasn't entirely uncommon this far north, it was just a nuisance for the Dutch man who was supposed to be on vacation. Oh, it was entirely his fault he was in Ottawa in the first place; he had chosen it as his two week vacation spot. But that didn't mean that he couldn't still complain. Stupid winter…

As he walked along the side of the not yet frozen Rideau Canal, Lars van der Meer thought. Principally, he smoked his pipe and looked about himself in the failing light, but when his attention wasn't on the scenery, he was thinking of other things.

Thirty years ago, Ottawa had been a thriving city. The war had boosted Canada's already strong economy, and the people had enjoyed unprecedented wealth and comfort. The Corporations had been constrained to a few areas, but overall had claimed little of the country's vast resources. But as the Corporations grew, and resources became even scarcer than they had been in pre-war times, UMA began to concentrate their forces on the rich country.

But they were not blind, as the Americans had been, nor stupid. They knew the Corporations would come after them. Secretly, the Canadian government had been developing new and terrifying biochemical weapons. The Hellhound virus, an airborne pathogen that killed within 72 hours and died with its host, which ensured the containment of the weapon on enemy soil only, was at first dropped onto enemy soldiers along the front lines from bombers. This tactic was eventually changed to direct and secret delivery into enemy camps executed by spies and trained agents (a much more difficult and slower task), as the bombs often resulted in losses on both sides.

The Time Bomb strain was another virus that saw considerable success before being abandoned. Cleverly engineered bullets were designed to contain strains of the lethal virus, which would explode from their container upon impact. Injuries would be infected immediately, though symptoms would not be felt for a few days. The highly contagious disease was meant to infect not only soldiers, but behind-the-scenes staff: doctors, nurses, cooks, engineers, high ranking military commanders. Eventually, the Corporations realised what was happening, and it became protocol to leave the injured and dead on the battlefield. The virus was abandoned when Canadian military personnel likewise succumbed to the disease when trying to retrieve their own injured and dead from among those of Corporation soldiers on the battlefield.

Then there was Project Erebus. The aim of Project Erebus's several branches was to find the most effective way of biologically enhancing soldiers' abilities. Through this, the drug dubbed The Terror was created. It suppressed soldiers' stress levels, their fear on the battlefield, while boosting adrenaline and by extension the senses; Canadian soldiers were able to see farther, hear better, and react faster than any paramilitary force. In three months, they gained back a quarter of lost territory. But the Canadians applauded their genius too early.

The Terror backfired terribly, proving that Mother Nature could not be fooled. Without the drug, soldiers would be plagued by nightmares, eventually turning into waking dreams, and hallucinations. A steady supply of Terror did nothing for them, as they quickly become immune to its positive effects. Before the military could stop the injections, over half of the army had been driven from their minds. It wasn't difficult after that for the Corporations to simply bowl through the country.

Indeed, the Fall of Canada had shown the world how not to wage war. Though both sides continued to experiment with biological and genetic manipulation, neither chose to apply it widely. This is what helped give rise to mechanical cosmetics, the full-bodied fight suits, and SAMEHs. Surgery was safe, while tampering with DNA was not.

Somehow, Lars's feet had taken him straight to Parliament Hill, or at least what used to be Parliament Hill. The buildings were well enough, all still standing at least. But the Centennial Flame had been extinguished forever, the House of Commons vacated of politicians, the bells of the Peace Tower silent as the grave. Instead, refugees from the north now flooded the halls of these buildings that had survived ice, fire, time, and war.

War. Though it kept him in business, Lars still hated it, hated that it kept him apart from his love, who was out there right now fighting, trying to survive, or maybe even dead. He hadn't seen her for more than a year; she could have been any of these things. The Dutchman had been searching all day for someone to take him up north, to her, but to no avail. The north was considered lost, despite the troops that still fought there. Well, "troops" was a loose term, as most of the people that had remained up north had formed their own rag-tag groups of Corporation resistance; farmers, secretaries, fast food workers, men and women of all walks of life, but all of them loyal to their country. Such groups were common nowadays as so many countries had lost control to UMA.

Though Lars was a freelance assassin, he made contracts only with the Governments. It didn't matter which Government was paying him at the time, as long as it wasn't Corporation money. Like thousands of others, Lars had chosen to blame the Corporations for the state of the world, and so refused to have anything to do with them. He had other, more private reasons, but they only saddened him to dwell on them.

He considered briefly climbing to the top of the Peace Tower, and getting a good view of the dilapidated city, but realised that the Memorial Chamber was likely also being used to store people, or at least supplies. Nothing could afford to be wasted in this day and age.

Looking up to the Peace Tower one last time, its half-shredded Canadian flag stumbling on the wind, Lars turned around, and headed back towards his rented room, and a meagre supper. Along with a letter that would at least pique his curiosity.

Los Angeles, U.S.A.

'Twas a bleak day in L.A., that much was certain. It had not yet started to rain, but you could sense it in the air, smell it on the wind. Or you could look up at the cloudy grey sky. The lone figure atop the Aon Center was certainly doing all of these things, surveilling the heavens as if they were his domain. They were closer to being his than anyone else's at any rate.

He felt a presence approach from a little ways off to his right and behind him. They took no care to conceal themselves; they didn't need to. It could only be one person, and one never needed to hide their presence when they were one of the most feared soldiers in the army, even among their own ranks.

"There's a storm coming," stated the large black mass at his side now. The voice was male, but oddly electronic, as if spoken through a speaker. It told of confidence, and demanded obedience, and gave the first man goose bumps. He said nothing in response.

"How are your wounds?" the figure spoke again.

"Healing," the first figure retorted, his voice likewise sounding slightly electronic.

"I'm not going to apologise," the newcomer said after some time had passed.

"I don't expect you to, sir," the first man countered. "As long as you don't expect me to, either."

"When you challenged me two weeks ago," the darker figure continued, much to the lighter's chagrin. "I realised something very important. Your disobedience was, in fact, a show of your loyalty, and instead of losing a valuable member of the team, because, make no mistake, I would have killed you had I felt you would become a problem, I gained something." The first man felt red eyes turn and lock on him. "I've made all the arrangements. You are now my second-in-command, a sub-leader of Ark. Congratulations, Captain Williams."

And with that, the soldier known as the Black Eagle took off on black metal wings back towards the Ark base, leaving fellow team member Snowy Owl in shock. He hadn't really expected anything to happen after the incident; he was too good to be kicked off the team, too priceless to be executed for his insolence. In his defence, he hadn't meant his outburst to have become a struggle over leadership; he'd just been voicing his opinion that he didn't like being bossed around.

But to be made second-in-command for it? It was simply unbelievable. Was the Black Eagle lying? Trying to pull some prank, make him the laughing stock of the Ark Corps? He might as well throw himself off the building right now.

Then again, this wasn't the Black Eagle's style. No, he would have simply killed him. Perhaps this wasn't all a dream.

Following his commander into the skies, Snowy Owl thought about just how he'd been brought to this moment as the white metal of his mechanical flight suit changed in appearance to allow him to blend in with the clouds above. With every beat of his carefully engineered, and dead silent metal wings, Matthew was taken further back in time, to that place four years ago. Thunder rolled lazily in the distance.

-{ * }-

A Note From Blaklite: So, here's something new…again. I haven't given up on my other stories, just this idea popped into my head and I had to get it out. This story is highly inspired by the Metal Gear videogame series, but you don't have to play it to understand what is going on. Also, the story isn't told through a single character's viewpoint; many characters will be appearing to tell their stories, though for the most part concentration will be on these four characters. I originally was not going to include Matthew as a main character, and instead give him a side story that would have been published as a companion. But telling the story like this, I feel works better in the long run. I will try to include as many Hetalia characters as I can (even if they only have small parts, like Eduard), but don't get upset if your favourite doesn't appear. Some characters just won't fit.

Also, did anyone catch the references? There's a historical reference, and cultural one, teehee.


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